


The Irish Scream

by malchanceux



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: (I use that tag very lightly here), (kind of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Always a Girl Will Graham, Animalistic Behavior, Banshees, Body Horror, Creature Fic, Demons, Dubious Consent, F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mentions of Pregnancy, Monster Physiology, Monsters, Possessive Behavior, Rule 63, Vampires, Wendigo, lots and lots of exposition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-03-03 17:11:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13345749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: A stranded Willow Graham finds herself the unwilling house guest of a monster with insatiable appetites. Luckily for Will, Hannibal Lecter is anything but a discourteous host.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Banshees are the spirits of mothers who suffered the loss of a child.

There are two forms of Banshee—the Wraith who haunts the night in eternal agony, screaming a harrowing warning to mothers whose children are soon to meet an end.

—and the rebirth of an Impression, or Doppelganger: a Banshee who merges their energy into that of a dying child to tear them from the grip of Death himself, seeding themselves amongst the family much like a cuckoo's egg.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Mother is the name of God in the lips and hearts of children." - William Makepeace Thackeray

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Anne Marie Graham’s dreams are apple pie boring. She dreamed of the work day she left behind, of house chores not yet completed; she dreamed of the television shows she had watched recently, books left half-finished; she dreamed of her husband and their life together before marriage, moments of painful normalcy, laughably typical. When Anne Marie’s brain was feeling exceptionally creative, she dreamed of flying. Not over anything particularly interesting or for any one reason, just the feeling of soaring and the calmness of a simple, apple pie mind.

It was rare that Anne Marie Graham should have a nightmare.

Tonight she would  _live_ one.

Anne awoke with the suddenness of a spooked hare. She could not pinpoint exactly what woke her, and her husband, Jonathan Graham, snored quietly on his side of the bed, unawares. It hadn't been a nightmare that she could recall, and in the same sense, her heart did not stutter in her chest, nor was her skin uncomfortably clammy as though she had suffered a night terror. Inexplicably, Anne still felt the prickling of fear ghost over her skin; gooseflesh in the face of some unknown fright.

Anne Marie sat up and scanned the room. Nothing but the dark shapes of homely furniture greeted her.

Anne listened instead.

The baby monitor on the bedside table remained stubbornly quiet, though Anne wished that just this once her child would cry out for her.  _Anything_ to explain the growing anxiety.

“Jonathan?” she breathed, barely a whisper.

She tried again—“Jonathan?”—but still her voice could not quite escape her lips.

Anne got up. Her legs were fidgety though her mind screamed for her to just lay down,  _lay down,_ and go back to sleep. Her body was pulled out of the room and down the hall despite her better judgement.

The nursery’s door was a pale shade of pink. Jonathan had argued for a less traditional cream yellow, but Anne had been stubborn and gotten her way. Instead, their little girl was gifted with pastel yellow bunnies hopping along her walls, dancing beside the crib.  _An army,_ Jonathan had said jokingly, paint smeared on his hands and face,  _to keep the bad dreams away._

Perhaps they needed to paint bunnies in their own room, Anne thought on the brink of hysterics. She felt insane as she stood— _hovered—_ outside her child’s door.  _Just turn around_ , she urged herself,  _go back to bed!_

Anne Marie opened the door; let it swing wide on slow, silent hinges.

The dim, warm glow of the nursery nightlight illuminated a plethora of stuffed animals and the scattered mess of blocks and teething toys, a clean but cluttered changing table, and the sleeping, peaceful form of the infant Graham. The room was empty of anything nefarious, and it was only then seeing so that Anne realized she had been expecting something. She let out a breath she had not noticed she had been holding. Anne felt so silly in the wake of her fear, laughed quietly at her antics as she walked to the crib and pulled a blanket more securely around her child.

When Anne turned back to the door to leave, she saw it. Or rather  _her._

There, in the corner of the nursery, a woman in a dirty, tattered gown stood. Her arms hung lax, her head listed to one side—matted hair obscuring a fixated stare and peeling lips. Her feet were bare save for the dried mud clinging to pale skin; the same dirt stained her hands and forearms.

 _It's not real,_ echoed like an afterthought. Of course it wasn't real, what a silly thing to think. That wasn't up for debate. All the same, piercing eyes held Anne Marie in place; paralyzed with fear.  _It's not real,_ she thought again. But adrenaline burst from her chest like an angry hornets nest. Anne found she could not control the reaction nor quell it.

_It's not real._

Not the scent of damp earth, or the permeating sting of something rotting.

_It's not real._

Nor the sound of a wet breath drawn into crackling lungs.

_It's not real._

Anne's senses betrayed her; conjured eyes the color of an abyss and nails chipped as though they had been  _clawing._

Still the ghostly woman stood amidst the nursery all the same. Anne screwed her eyes shut as tightly as she could, lips forming a seal to keep all sound locked securely away. It felt like the noise could validate what she was seeing, like if Anne just held still and looked away it would all just disappear.

When Anne opened her eyes, the dirtied thing still stood in the corner, glaring. The woman took one small, menacing step closer.

 _"Stop,"_ a desperate whisper rushed from Anne's trembling lips. Her heart beat a staccato pace, each indistinguishable in its speed and yet her pulse was  _palpable_ in her throat. Throbbing and so  _loud_ it was all Anne could hear.

A raspy voice replied: “She’s going to die.”

"You're not real," Anne asserted, fear turning to hysteria.

The woman ignored her, and as though Anne Marie hadn't spoken a word, took another terrifying step forward.

Anne's voice raised, hysteria turning to anger. "You're not  _real!"_

With the speed of something  _unnatural_ the woman was standing a mere foot from Anne, grabbing her by the arms in a bruising grip. Up close Anne could see black veins coursing under spoiled flesh, eyes fogged over like a corpse. She took this all in, every grotesque detail, in shock. It was not until the woman let go and Anne jerked back, crashing into the crib and collapsing to the floor that she realized the woman was screaming. The pitch was earth shattering; the noise carrying a power with it that made Anne’s whole body feel frozen by the hand of Death himself. A sense of terrible,  _horrible_ dread sunk its claws into Anne’s heart and held it hostage in her throat.

And then suddenly the woman was gone.

“Anne!” Jonathan yelled, muffled from the bedroom, “Anne, where are you?”

The baby was crying.

“Anne!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

Will’s car breaks down ten miles out from the next town. The air is stale and sticky, the sky breezeless; not a cloud for as far as she can see. Sweat trickles down the back of her neck, sliding quickly down her shirt and further darkening the soft cotton material, making it cling like a slimy second skin.

“Fuck you too, Ford,” Will grunts, slamming the hood of the car closed. There was a hole in her radiator, or a hose. At this point she couldn’t tell, all Will knew was that in a matter of 10 minutes her car went from pushing 80 to pushing daisies.

Will scowled down the crumbling road she’d just minutes ago been perusing so comfortably. Hindsight. She should have stayed on the main road. Saving an hours’ worth of driving was not nearly alluring enough a reward for risking this clusterfuck of a short cut. The car was fourteen years old; in the last 6 months Will had poured nearly two-thousand dollars’ worth of repairs into it. She didn’t know what the devil had possessed her to make her think driving down a backroad that looked like it hadn’t seen maintenance since before she was _born_ was a good idea.

“Hindsight,” she mumbled angrily to herself. “ _Now_ what?”

Will continues to glare down the road. The cracked asphalt had left the path narrower and narrower as time and weather steadily whittled away the already small two lane street. Pot holes were numerous and deep; Will had hit one or two on her way down by mistake. It was probably why she found herself stranded now.

Will pulls out her cell phone. She’s not surprised to see a small red _‘X’_ where her signal bars should be. She’d been dropping in and out of range of her service since she first set off on her trip two days ago. Will thinks she remembers having a few bars just two or three miles back, however. There was what looked like a small, posh community—“ _something_ ” Grove, it was called. A niche for those who wanted to be away from the crowd of a city but have all the amenities city life bought. If she couldn’t get cell reception there she could just _(grudgingly)_ ask to use someone’s landline.

Will flips on her hazard lights and locks her car doors. She wishes she had worn something more comfortable than work boots now, with the prospect of a long, sweltering walk ahead of her. And maybe shorts instead of jeans. In 90 degree weather, the Florida sun and humidity could very well reduce her to a puddle of sweat before she reached civilization.

 

 

 

 

An hour into the walk and Will starts to worry. She hadn’t seen the small gated community from before yet, nor had she picked up a signal on her phone. Will hadn’t thought it had been so far out, but then again, she hadn’t thought about her car breaking down and having to search for it by foot again either. Sunset looked to be thirty or so minutes out by this point; the sky staining orange and pink at its fringes.

As was true with most of the south, Florida was not the state to wonder in the dark. Mosquitoes, alligators, pumas, boars, palmetto bugs… A shiver ran up Will’s spine, disgust at the thought of giant flying roaches flinging themselves at her.

A break in the seemingly endless brush of reaching pine trees, needle-pointed dwarf palm, and Spanish moss covered Oak trees brings hope in the form of a long dirt drive. A vine covered gate stands grand and tucked securely away from sight of the main road. If Will hadn’t been walking by she would have missed it, just as she must have driving past the first time. A fence reached out from the thick, corroding brick columns that make up the gate’s hinges, dark metal reaching out through the woods like a whisper. All the way up the road, walking maybe three yards or so away, Will had not noticed the old rusted fixtures. As Will approached cautiously down the driveway she absently wonders if deer have a hard a time as she spotting the fence; wonders if they ever impale themselves in their haste on the sharp, arrow shaped tips.

_Focus, Graham. Now isn’t the time for daydreams._

 It is obvious this gate does not belong to the posh community she had spotted hours earlier; the structure has been left to the mercies of time and Florida’s weather. It holds a look of abandonment about it, a neglect Will is sure no upper crust soccer mom would tolerate for very long. But the mailbox Will sees just at the edge of the leftmost column has its flag up, indicating their is mail awaiting pickup. She flips it open--there is a thick envelope inside, clean and crisp with neat cursive adorning it. No dust or bugs, indicating to Will that though the gate looks old and the land unkept, the property is still occupied.

There is a thick chain and lock across the front of the metal bars. Whoever lives here holds privacy in high regard.

Will checks her phone. She still has no signal, and it was only getting later.

With a heavy sigh, Will begins to clamber up the rusted metal, hopping over to the other side. The pathway looked much longer than any driveway had a right to be. Trees and bushes reached their spindly arms out, as though trying to catch any trespassers who had the gall to cross over their threshold. Slowly, with a nervousness coiling in her stomach, Will walked towards what was hopefully a house with an available landline and friendly occupants.

 

 

 

 

The house is, frankly, more of a manor than anything else. Stately is the only way Will can think of describing it. No other home or mansion she has seen while passing through the Sunshine State has looked quite like it. Whereas the rest of the south seemed content with concrete and stucco, whoever lived here had a penchant for brick and mortar and wood. The yard around the house was a complete contrast to the hazardous woods Will had been all but trekking through by this point. There was immaculate turf in a well defined circle around the structure, with what looked like an herb garden planted under what could be the livingroom window. It was surreal to see--chaos colliding with an obsessive neatness. Water meeting oil.

The sun was setting; shadows of night were steadily reaching over the manor as though trying to consume it. Will was sure the place was a sight to see in the day, but as evening quickly approached the home seemed foreboding. Haunting. A monster with the lure of rapture in the bowels of its belly.  

A light flicked on in the leftmost room of the second story, a silhouette of a man passing by the window before disappearing.

Someone was home.

Hope bubbled up alongside apprehension. Will was hyper aware of the fact she was a lone female about to go knocking on a strange man's door in the middle of nowhere. She’d watched too many horror flicks _(watched enough of her local news stations)_ to not know how south things could go from this point. Courage brought her feet forward; that and a sense of desperation.

A strange _laughing_ came from behind. Startled, Will spun on heel. A little grey fox was in the middle of the driveway, sitting and _smiling_ a smug look. She hadn’t heard it approach. Its fur was dirty and matted, its body unhealthily lithe. Its eyes stared blankly, a strange fog about them, a white film over the pupils.

 _Harmless,_ Will told herself, and she turned back only to be met by yet three more foxes. These stood hunched, and looked as though they too were smiling; in on some joke no one had bothered to tell Will. Their fur and eyes were in the same poor condition as their friend, and one smiled more with its teeth--showing off intimidating needle pointed enamel.

“What the--” She looked over her shoulder and saw the first fox had multiplied into four. “--fuck?”

Laughing came from all around her now, ringing like an echoing, reedy sting in the air. Will’s heart began to pound wildly in her chest with a fear she couldn’t explain.

 _They’re just animals,_ she told herself. They came up only to mid calf; her boots were sturdy and steel-toed, she could kick them away if it came to that.

But the laughing persisted and unhinged Will. Her head swung back and forth between them--and Will knew deep down in her _bones_ that these were not just some mange infested vermin.

 _“Stop it!”_ She hissed, and the jeers silenced as quickly as they had began. The air seemed to get swiftly cooler, goose pimples rising on her flesh. Suddenly the Florida dusk seemed silent as a grave--not a cicada nor an owl or a cricket to be heard. A nervousness built up within her legs-- _run_ , they urged, _run and run and don’t you dare stop._

 _Run from_ what? _They’re just--_

A vision of sharp teeth and ripped flesh takes her. Will sees herself lying unmoving, dirtied, and bloody on the ground, eyes staring wide and desperate to the sky as though beseeching a god she has never before believed in. The foxes tear happily at their prey, their mouths full though laughter echoes about them mockingly. Beneath the commotion a whisper of footsteps approaches; disporportioned barefeet pad over pine needles and dried leaves like smoke. The advancing pale flesh does more to unnerve Will than the sight of her own bones being picked clean.

Will comes back to herself with a rush of adrenaline; her body jerks to the right in a panic and she throws herself toward the woods. Since she was very little Will has had what her mother calls an “overactive” and “morbid” imagination--her father, a seasoned homicide detective, had always deemed it a keen sense of intuition. Whatever you called it, the visions of peril that often painted themselves red behind Will’s eyelids were rarely misguiding.

The foxes follow swiftly at her feet, their laughing joined by yowling and snarling. She enters the woods with a feeling of great trepidation, but the little monsters have left her with little choice.

Will runs through the woods like a mad boar; she crashes through clusters of dwarf palms, thorny vines, and sharp branches, slicing shallow cuts up her arms and around her neck; hands reaching up to protect her face like an afterthought with her haste. Though her dash through the woods was sparked by terror, she does not run without purpose. Yapping, _laughing_ razor teeth might have forced her into the gnarling brush, but Will is slowly rounding a wide arc back to the gate. The little bastards could probably fit through the bars of the fence, but she doubted they’d follow her in the open for long. That, or if she made enough noise whoever lived in the lavish home she had so hoped would be her savior tonight would yet rescue her from the rabid beasts that lived on their property.

Will hefts herself over a fallen, rotting oak, but instead of landing on solid, pact dirt as expected , Will’s feet _splash_ into ankle deep water—sinking into knee deep mud.

“Fuck!” she yelps, barely catching herself from falling face first into the miserable muck. Her left arm is soaked and dirtied up to the elbow for her efforts. Will rights herself and tries to reach back for the fallen tree, so she can pull her legs free—

Will’s hand is bitten the moment her fingers graze the rough bark. Needle thin teeth latch on with the ferocity of a bear trap. She screams in pain, her voice seeming to echo about the woods as though she were surrounded by mountains. It’s surreal, the whole situation—and Will’s exclamation has made her _dizzy._ But it also seemed to have startled the little devil fox, because its laughing turns to startled yipping as it lets go of her hand and jumps back, the others stopping dead in their tracks, still smiling but heads turning every which way as though they could not quite grasp Will’s shout.

Her own gulping breaths deafen her, vision blurring from tears--Will decides not to question the lapse in the chase and instead uses the distraction to try and free herself.

Will jerks her body through the mud. It’s a small trickle of water that has made this trap, traveling down from some imperceptible incline northwards. It’s thick and deep but small. Her thighs and calves burn by the time she drags herself free, and she loses both shoes in her rush, but when Will scrambles upright she brings a sturdy branch with her.

_Batter’s up._

Little laughing foxes scatter left and right around the mud, barely getting their little feet wet as they sprint to flank her. But this time she’s ready. The first fox that lunges for Will’s legs gets a strong _thwack_ in the side, sending it into the trunk of the fallen log with a hard _crack_ and a shallow dunk into the water _._ The second Will bludgeons into the ground. The third, however, she doesn’t see, and it jumps for her thigh and sends her to the ground with a howl of pain.

Will rolls onto her back and kicks the thing off of her, swinging the tree branch wildly in a panic to ward off the rest. It slips out of her hand after connecting to a furry head, and Will scrambles back to her feet and tries to make another run for the gate. Her bitten thigh feels like it is on fire though, and the best she can manage is a quick, jerky hobble. It makes Will think back to junior year, of all things, back to her mandatory participation in Track—when her small, sickly frame could barely push her through one lap around the football field.

Will feels like that now; her lungs burning and legs aching and heart throbbing. An animalistic desperation has her body urging itself forward, through the hurt and exhaustion. Even if it felt like she was falling apart doing so.

A figure in the distance stops Will short. In a moment her mind processes a thin, gangly frame of a very tall man. He is dirty; his skin looks unnaturally grey and he wears only the scraps of ripped jeans and a burlap bag over his head. On the brown, stitched cloth is the worn likeness of a fox's face, grinning back at her. At the man's familiar bare feet there are several more of the small, mangy foxes standing at a strange attention by his side.

Will’s blood turns cold. She’s sees them begin to sprint towards her when several, vicious mouths latch onto her legs and bring her down from behind.

“No!” she yells, trying to tear them off. But with every needle-filled maw she rips away two more seem to cling on. Her arms and legs become pincushions—Will a mess of panicked limbs and broken sobs.

Inevitability begins to set in.

_I’m going to die here._

Will pushes herself off the ground and stumbles back until her back hits the base of a thick oak. With how torn her legs are Will doesn’t think she can get up again, and so settles for picking up a rock to defend herself with. However, the onslaught stops as abruptly as it began. Will sits rigid, breathing heavy and arm raised to strike, but the foxes do not lunge for her. They do not try to bite again. Instead they stand around her, some smiling and _laughing_ while the others growled and bared their fangs.

Will looks up through tear-blurred eyes and watches with terror and morbid curiosity as _death_ approaches. She understands now, the sudden stillness. There was no need to bite or mangle when Will was hurt and cornered and had no hope of escape.

The man slinks over fallen branches and rocks like his limbs don’t work quite right, like a marionette controlled by amateur hands. His slim, long fingers are curled like claws, stiff like a dead man’s. With every step closer a strange feeling builds up from the core of Will’s chest to the back of her throat. It feels like a liquid heat, like a soothing balm and a lick of lightning all at once; bubbling and churning and growing softly and sharply upward.

Will stares at the strange man with a wide-eyed ferocity only an animalistic fear could create, and feels more and more as though she is having an out of body experience. The rock falls from her hand, useless. She _knows_ it would do the monster no harm, just as she knows that if she tried to run again her audience would rekindle their frenzy upon her limbs.

Not that she _could_ try. Will cannot take her eyes from the burlap horror that is lurking ever closer, as though hypnotized.

_He wants to eat me._

She knows this to be true. Just as she knows beneath the burlap sack there is an unnaturally long face and a protrusible jaw filled to the brim with sharp teeth yearning to tear into warm flesh. Wanting to devour her whole. Wanting to steal her life to sate its _hunger._ A mystery just like her visions, Will does not know where this knowledge comes from; only feels the certainty of it in her gut, boiling up just like the strange, physical warmth trying to escape to her throat.

The man comes to a halt just in arms reach, his lumbering form hovering over her like a guillotine. Will is close to hyperventilating, her breathing so frantic she was becoming light headed. But then maybe it would be best, Will thinks, passing out before being eaten.

_I don't want to die._

Thin, crooked fingers reach for Will, closing around her arm in a bruising grip. With the other hand the man reaches to remove the burlap sack. Will didn’t want to die, but knew the protrusible jaw would be the last thing she would ever see. A set of needle-pointed enamel embedding itself in her skull would be the end of Willow Shannon Graham.

_I don’t want to fucking die!_

Slowly tattered cloth lifted away from grey flesh, revealing a face that was gaunt and eye sockets as black and empty as an abysse.

Will isn’t sure what does it, whether it is the teeth or the eyes or the claw-like fingers holding her in place, but the terror she feels seems to snap like an old rubber band. Will’s heart beats more frantic in her chest than her breathing could ever hope to achieve, but her tears cease and the certainty of death vanishes. In their place the electric heat, the boiling honey wrenching up her esophagus, explodes. Will screws her eyes shut as a feeling of intense _heartburn_ throws itself from the back of her throat and out of her mouth. Will’s head tips back, her body giving out, leaving her limp in the monster’s grip.

Will feels what must be a scream lurch forth, but she can hear nothing but a loud ringing.

It feels like an eternity before the sound stops. Will is left gasping for air and utterly unable to move. She can feel her limbs tremble and twitch against the hard bark of the oak she slouches against, the heat slowly subsiding; dissipating down her throat and back to her chest, settling like a content fire burning out its final cinders.

Senses come back gradually, like the languidly dripping of caramel. What she could hear was the quiet trickle from the stream earlier; the wind rustling far above, where the oak and pine trees shivered in each other’s embrace. She smelled the cold dust of the nutrient deficient sand that seemed to be all that Florida had to offer. Her mouth tasted of copper; the side of her cheek stung. At some point she had bitten through it.

When Will opened her eyes, she could see the sky had gone pitch with night. And she was all alone.

_What happened?_

The rustling _crunch_ of leaves and sticks breaking beneath heavy feet frightened Will, but she found her body was too exhausted to work up a panic. Her heart stayed stubbornly calm; Will’s body unmoving.

Someone was coming her way.

The outline of a man comes into view, a black mass silhouetted only by the light of the stars and moon. It is not the _monster_ Will had seen earlier; whoever this was was wearing a suit.

“Are you alright, miss?” a far eastern accent rolled thick over syllables like peanut butter.

Will tries to answer, to warn of the beast in the woods, but finds even her mouth won't cooperate. She manages a jerky gesture with her arm, reaching for the man--for _help_ \--before she passes out entirely.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably about 2 or 3 chapters left to go, depending on how long winded I get with the ending.
> 
> Today is my birthday, and I decided a gift for myself would be whoring my writing out for kudos and comments. ;)

 

 

 

 

Will wakes to the scent of cooked meat. Rosemary and the pungent smell of red wine permeate the air, coiling around a faint zest of lemon. Opening her eyes, she finds an expensively furnished room hued by the warm light of a fire. A soft instrumental played alongside the crackling from the fire place and the distant sound of someone tinkering with kitchenware.

Will finds her head cushioned on a comfortable velvet pillow, its material soft and a deep burgundy.  She's laid out on an equally comfortable couch of the same color. There are books beyond counting on several bookcases, art decorating the walls and table tops, a rug that looks like it cost a fortune on its own encompassing the space between the couch and the fire, and rough, weathered rock face of the stone hearth.

Will cannot remember how she got here.

“Ah, you're awake,” a foreign, yet strangely familiar voice says. Will lifts her head, finding herself dizzy and disoriented; groggy eyes search the room until they land on a dark silhouette standing in front of the fireplace. “I hope the couch was not too terribly uncomfortable for you. You seemed exhausted; I didn't have the heart to wake you.”

 _How thoughtful,_ Will thinks. _Polite._

“You took a bit of a fall earlier, in the woods,” the man says again, and Will can see it in her mind’s eye. Running through the woods, fear, and then… a fall? It didn't quite fit, but this man seemed to know better. “Dinner has a while yet to cook. Why don't you freshen up? There are clean towels and a change of clothes in the guest bathroom.”

“Thank you,” Will says absently. Her voice sounds far away. She sits up and looks down at her arms. There are scratches and bite marks, there is blood and dirt and her shirt is torn.

 _I needed help,_ Will remembers. _I need to get help._

A light touch at her shoulder brings Will’s attention back to the present. Her host stands at an arm's length now, frowning down at her.

“The bathroom is just down the hall,” he gestures. “I should be done in the kitchen once you are cleaned up. I’m sure you must be hungry.”

“Yes, very,” Will agrees, and her stomach seems to growl as if on cue. On wobbly legs, she stands. Will hesitates for a moment, looking the man in his strange red eyes, sure that her legs should give out or that there should be pain accompanying the movement. There isn’t. And why would there be, if it was just a simple fall?

Will trails slowly down the offered hallway until she finds her way into a stark granite and stainless steel bathroom. With little thought she strips, each layer of clothing removed revealing a new bruise or another bite. Will feels nothing, not even when she prods one such wound into bleeding.

Promptly, Will showers. Her host had not seemed concerned with her injuries, and wouldn’t it be rude to dally and be late for dinner?

Mud and blood mix down the drain, and for a moment Will is caught mesmerized. Soap and suds soon follow after, and gradually the water coming off of her body becomes clear. The bathroom steams wonderfully, the misty air perfumed with lavender by borrowed shampoo. The temptation to stay in the shower was a constant, nagging pull, punctuated by the perfect pressure and heat. But just as the thought of taking just a _bit_ longer in the shower crosses Will’s mind, an image of her gracious hosts’ stern frown comes to the forefront. It would be discourteous to linger.

After toweling dry Will sees the aforementioned spare clothes folded atop the counter. There is a comb as well, placed just next to the clothing. There is no bra or underwear, so Will foregoes them entirely, her own ruined and still damp with sweat.

A black, pleated skirt fits loose but manageable at Will’s boyish hips, but the accompanying blouse is simply too large. Its conservative V-neck dips much lower than intended, and the sleeves over take her hands. Will rolls the sleeves to quarters and adjusts the shoulders so the top sits a bit higher on her chest.

Will uses the offered comb until her hair, though wet, sits tamed at her shoulders. She looks in the mirror and decides she is presentable. Once this thought crosses her mind, she feels compelled to find her host. Will did not want to keep him waiting.

“There you are,” her host says, meeting her in the den she had first awoken in. He smiles kindly at her, his eyes scanning from Will’s barefeet to the slight curve of her chest to her wet hair. He seems pleased, which in turn pleases Will. “Those clothes belong to an old friend of mine. I apologize, but she is a bit older than you, so I know it is an ill fit. For now, at least. It should not be an issue for much longer.”

A contemplative pause.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Will says, because it was only polite, though to her ears her voice is a monotonous drone.

Her host frowns at her reply. Something has displeased him. Unsure of what she may have done, or what she could do to fix it, Will stands still, arms limp at her sides, waiting on her gracious host.

The man approaches her on silent feet, a look of concentration on his face. He brings both arms up, two large hands gently wrapping around Will’s biceps. They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, neither blinking or glancing away. In a rare moment of eye contact, Will studies the strange red irises presented to her, thinking of albino rabbits. Her host seems lost in thought as well, trying to examine something he sees in _Will’s_ eyes, perhaps, or her face in general.

“You are terribly famished,” he breaks their silence, one hand shifting to the small of Will’s back. “Let's get you fed. Dinner is ready.”

Without a word Will lets herself be steered into a large dining room. She is seated just to the right of the head of the table with a glass of wine. Her host disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes, and returns with an elaborate display. There are several thick, circular cuts of meat arranged on two plates _just so_ , a kind of balled rice served on the side with a sauce the color of blood drizzled over it all. It smelled divine and quickly had saliva pooling in Will’s mouth.

“Rosemary braised lamb,” her host said, gesturing to their meals.

Wordlessly, Will picked up a fork and knife and cut off a small piece of the lamb. As she pressed the meat to her tongue, flavors burst across her palette. This was not like any lamb Will had eaten before. After the first bite Will feels a compulsion to finish every morsel of meat on her plate. She works her way through the first slice of meat, the second, third, forth, and when she is scarfing the remaining fifth piece of thick lamb into her mouth Will’s gracious host offers cuts from his own plate.

Will knows she should feel bloated with the amount of food she has forced down her gullet, yet she still feels the dull pains of hunger urging her on.

With every bite she swallows, the fog of disorientation and scattered thoughts slowly starts to lift.

It is when Will is finishing off her hosts portion of dinner that she realizes something is not right. Will places her fork and knife across the plate and sits back in her chair, taking in the room, her meal, and the man who cooked it as if for the first time.

Will’s _‘host’_ smiles knowingly at her.

“Good evening,” he greets, as though they had not been sharing a meal together. As though Will had not just taken a shower in his home and borrowed clothing from him. “My name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”

Confusion colors every thought running through Will’s head.

“My name is,” she hesitates, fear starting to flutter in her chest. “My name is Willow Graham.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Willow.”

“Just Will,” she corrected out of reflex.

“Will,” Hannibal amended.

“Where am I?”

“You are in Weeki Wachee, Florida,” he looked at his wrist watch. “It is 11:47pm, and you are in my home.”

“I don’t understand. How did I get here?”

“You climbed over my fence onto my property. I assume looking for help.”

“Help?” Will repeated, and then she remembered her car breaking down.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Excuse me?”

Hannibal nodded to her empty plate. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

It was the best thing she had ever tasted, Will almost said, but the outlandishness of the situation had her words withering in her mouth. What the hell was going on?

“Can I borrow your phone?” Will asked abruptly, her words running together in their haste. “Dinner was great, really, but my car broke down about an hour from here. I need to have it towed and let my mother know where I am. She must be worried.”

“I don’t believe that’s a good idea right now,” Hannibal said with the same amicable demeanor he had introduced himself with. The words unsettled Will; anxiety clawing at the fringes of her mind.

“Why is that?”

“Because you have just fed,” the doctor replied matter of factly.

“I don’t understand.”

Hannibal nodded, as though he suspected as much. He sat back in his own chair, picking up his glass of wine and sipping at it leisurely before replying.

“Do you enjoy mythos, Will Graham?”

“I-- I only know what little I’ve picked up from college,” Will answered. “I suppose I do, yes.”

“Have you ever gave thought to any of them being real?”

Will’s memories of the _thing_ that had hunted her in the woods just hours prior jump to the forefront. She answered without conviction. “They’re just stories.”

“Fox demons are known for their trickery,” Hannibal said, ignoring her answer. “They could make their victims walk in circles for hours, tiring them, before using illusions and its vermin slaves to bring down their meal. They are not very powerful, but to a sole human they would be quite formidable.”

“You know about that monster in the woods?” Will asked in a whisper, a cold sweat breaking across her skin.

“It has been there for many years, only because I deem it so. It keeps intruders at bay. I have not had an unwelcomed guest in a very long time.”

Will stood from her seat, moving fast enough to send the heavy wood chair toppling. She grabbed her steak knife from the table, a firm grip keeping the point of the blade towards the doctor as Will felt another vision taking hold of her.

_Pale flesh blackened, a glossy texture taking over Hannibal Lecter’s naked form. Antlers grew from his skull, his eyes clouding a milky white. Claws slammed into the top of the dining room table, a feral shout erupted from a razor filled maw. The sound was like a tiger's roar and an elks cry all at once, deafening as it was terrifying._

_Pinned to the table, glassy eyed and unresponsive, Will lay beneath the growling beast. Her limp body littered with long, black raven feathers. Their was blood at her neck: a bite wound. Deep, permanent. A symbol for loss of autonomy._

“What _are_ you?” Will hissed as she came back to herself, slowly backing away from Lecter.

“I recommend taking a seat, Will,” Hannibal said calmly, not even giving the knife a glance.

_“What are you!”_

“A Wendigo,” Hannibal said, breath warm against Will’s ear from behind. With a scream Will spun around, the hand with the knife jabbing forward out of reflex. The blade embedded itself in the doctor’s stomach.

_“Oh my god!”_

Did she just kill a man?

Hannibal wrapped long fingers around the blade’s handle and promptly pulled it free. There wasn’t so much a twitch of discomfort across his face. Will felt tears spring forth for the second time that evening. Had she survived a supposed demon just to be eaten by a _cannibal_?

“You are asking the wrong questions, my dear Will,” the doctor placed the knife on the table carefully, eyeing her with an unreadable expression. “Look at your arms.”

Will looked despite herself. Her hands were shaking, there was a small smear of blood on her pointer finger from where she had just stabbed Hannibal Lecter. Other than that, it was just the smooth expanse of too pale flesh.

The doctor grabbed hold of her wrists. Will screamed in shock and tried to yank herself free, but Lecter was as sturdy as the old oaks that made up his property; he did not budge an inch.

“Let go, god damn it!” Will pulled and tugged and pushed at Lecter’s grip.

“Look again,” he said simply, and forced Will’s arms up in front of her. And Will did, she looked at her arms and with a growing sense of panic realized all the bite marks and bruises and cuts that had littered her body before were gone.

“What did you do?” she yelled. “What did you _do?”_

Will’s legs gave out from beneath her. The suddenness of it had Will’s screaming turn into a surprised yelp. Completely unprepared, Will waited for her knees to collide with the hardwood floor with a painful _thunk,_ but Lecter seemed to have been expecting the fall. He used his hold on her arms as leverage, controlling the fall like a puppeteer and had Will landing gently on the floor instead. The doctor arranged Will on her back, laying her arms on her stomach.

“What did you do?” Will repeats herself in a terrified whisper, looking up at the doctor. Her body felt so heavy she could barely twitch her fingers or toes. A warmth spread amongst her extremities, steadily rising in temperature.

“I fed you,” Hannibal answered. He brushed stray hairs away from Will’s face, his large hand cupping her cheek, thumb rubbing softly to wipe away tears.

“What did you _feed_ me?” Will bit out. “Did you drug me?”

“I would never sully a meal in such a way,” the doctor said. “As for what you ate… I simply gave you what your body has been craving for years. I gave you what you needed to _Become_.”

Will remembered what he had confessed not minutes before. _Wendigo._ Will knew enough about them from books and movies. A new wave of tears flooded down her cheeks and she sobbed.

“Did I just eat a person?”

Hannibal paused, the only tell that Will had surprised him. A smile slowly spread thin lips.

“Smart girl,” he said, and it was all the answer Will needed. The knowledge of eating human flesh did not immediately repulse Will as she had expected--as it _should_ have. There was no sudden bout of nausea or vomiting. There were more tears and the steady fear continued to beat relentlessly at her ribcage, but there was no rejection of the taboo forced upon Will. All she could process was how _delicious_  the meal had been, and how famished she had felt while devouring the flesh.

“This will hurt,” Hannibal says above her. “You have been without for so long, it is a testament of your strength you were able to fend off the fox at all.”

“What will hurt? What are you _talking_ about?”

“The Cuckoo is about to grow its wings and leave its stolen nest.”

 _“You’re fucking crazy,”_ Will hissed, focusing entirely on trying to get her body to move. She jerked her limbs like a baby deer, wobbly and disoriented, until she could twist herself around, crawling on her stomach, slowly inching herself away from the psychopathic, cannibalistic doctor. She didn’t care what he said, he must have drugged her food. Her body flashed from hot to freezing, a fine sheen of sweat now glossed her skin.

From her view on the dining room floor Will could see what could be a garage door. A wooden key hook was installed by the door, and through tear blurred vision she could make out the dark shape of a car key.

Escape was not 30 feet away from her, and yet entirely unreachable until Will could do something about the plaid shrouded horror that now watched her pitiful display with sharp eyes. She thought back to her father, a hardened homicide detective, and all that he had taught her. If she could just--

A sickening _‘pop’_ resounds from Will’s hip, the sound like chicken bones dislocating, and suddenly her entire pelvic region was on fire.

A scream burst from her tired throat even as Will once again became limp on the dining room floor. As an inferno burned at her hips, terrible cramps worked their way through her lower stomach, and a thousand needles whittled away at her chest and throat.

Time lapses into nothing, disorientation at its most nauseating peak. The agony does not cease, and Will is blinded by tears and the sudden over saturation of the world around her. Bright colors assault her vision and ripe scents assault her olfactory organs. She feels _too much--_ beyond the pain, her skin picks up on the minute textures of the blouse around her, the wood floor beneath her, of her own hair on her damp cheeks and neck. It is all _too much_. Like she was experiencing the environment around her all at once, in a single moment.

After an eternity all sensation returns to its muted state with the same suddenness it had burst. Will is left a sweat soaked mess, borrowed clothes clinging to her body and damp hair stuck to her forehead. Her chest heaves, gulping air as she is. Will stares blankly ahead, her neck craned at an awkward and uncomfortable angle, gaze heavy on the garage door. Her mind feels numb. Thoughts of escape languid and unmotivated.

“Exquisite,” Hannibal breathes from somewhere behind. “I read tomes of your species’ _Becoming._ Of course, literature so rarely captures nature's beauty in its entirety. One must experience it with their own senses.”

A gentle hand laid at the small of Will’s back, flesh warm like a brand through damp clothing.

“I apologize, the more intimate moments of the transformation were redacted or understated, it seems. Another shower is in order, yes? I will find another set of clothes for you.”

With strong hands, Will is maneuvered into a sitting position. It is then that she realizes she is sitting in a small puddle of blood.

_My blood._

The sight should frighten her, but still Will’s mind is strangely composed. By the look of it, the thickness of it and the scent, it is menstrual blood. The obvious aside, it is strange to see as, since Will’s first period late in 9th grade, they have always been light and for the most part painless. To see so much at once was disconcerting, and to think that might be where the terrible cramping came from before was disturbing as well.

In a belated reaction, heat rises to Will’s cheeks and tears slip free from embarrassment.

Slowly, Hannibal helps Will back to the stark granite bathroom from before.

Her own clothes lay folded on top of the toilet seat, and vaguely she recalls performing that strange action. The thought of dirtied clothes left on the clean tile floor had struck her as _rude_ at the time, in her clouded daze _._

“What have you done to me?” her voice is tired, throat raw.

Hannibal does not answer right away. He leaves her side in order to ready the shower. Once the water is at a satisfactory temperature, he returns to undress her. His fingers merely graze the hem of the borrowed blouse before Will grabs his wrists with strength she did not know she still possessed. The doctor stills, and just like in the den, he looks at her with a face of concentration. This time, with no strange compulsion lending a rare moment of bravery, Will holds her gaze at his cheekbones and not at red flecked irises.

“You knew of the Wendigo, at my mention,” Hannibal says, considering. “Knew of my nature, even if it is an elementary understanding. However, I doubt the term _banshee_ would have the same effect for you.”

“Banshee?” Will repeats, confused. She drops his wrists and takes a few stumbling steps back, until she is leaning against the sink. Looking at the floor, she realizes now she has left a trail of blood from the kitchen to the bathroom, droplets and smudges leading from the closed door to where she stood now.

“ _‘  Harbinger of death’_ is what you may know them as. That is only their beginning. Not many species can boast a robust a life cycle as the banshee,” the doctor--the _Wendigo_ \--unbuttoned his suit jacket before laying it carefully over the side of a wicker hamper. “The banshee has three forms. Not many live long enough to reach full maturity, unfortunately. The circumstances in which they need to evolve are incredibly tedious.”

The more Hannibal spoke, the more Will was sure he was insane. And that, by extension, _she_ was insane. With what she had seen, _hallucinated,_ mustn’t she be?

“For as tedious as it may be, once a human has turned into a wraith, and then that wraith into an _Impression_ , the rewards are endless.”

Abruptly, Will spun around, turning her back to the doctor and placing her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear his lies, _could not_ listen to them any longer. She felt like she was unraveling, coming undone from the seams. Tattered cloth fraying beyond repair.

Will looks up and meets her own gaze in the mirror. Her eyes are red from crying, swollen and sore. She looks like a wreck--the sweat had dried her hair matted, her clothes still bore damp stains, and the skirt, of course, was still soiled completely. But something makes her pause, has her hands falling away from her ears, has her stare transfixed on her own silhouette.

Before, the borrowed blouse had hung loose and low at Will’s chest, the age and the obvious size difference of whoever owned the clothing most obvious in the bust. But now the cloth stretched across Will’s chest as though it were her own. Her breasts seemed _fuller._ Attentions went lower still, to her hips where the skirt had barely clung to her sides before. Now it fit, it was even a little tight along the waistband. Her hips were _wider._

“The Impression itself has two phases of life,” Hannibal went on to explain, his voice quiet, as if to gentle Will through her impending meltdown--mindful of her self discovery. “When I found you in my woods, you were but a child, malnourished and at the cusps of maturity. Many Impression’s do not make it through this phase of their life, and die an entirely human death. You need only a proper meal to overcome the human chrysalis.”

Hannibal stood right behind Will now, so close she swore she could feel his body heat along the length of her body. He placed his hands at her shoulders, and slowly, as though to not spook a frightened doe, he brought his nose to her matted hair, and smelled her. The doctor sampled Will’s scent as though she were a wine; closed his eyes, tilted his head as if considering all the distinct aromas that went into making up _Willow Graham._

A moment of tense silence. When Hannibal once again opens his eyes, he catches Will’s gaze in the mirror and pins her by some invisible force.

“I gave you this gift, Will. A seat at my table, and now you have broken free of adolescence.”

“I want to go home,” is all Will can think to say, plaintive and scared. She can deny all that she has seen tonight--the monster in the woods, Lecter being unaffected by his stab wound, the terrible fit he wrought on her body--but she cannot deny the physical changes to her form. The Willow Graham she sees in the mirror is not the Willow Graham who left home two days ago and set off for Florida.

“I know this is a lot for you to take in at once, and I know the change would have been particularly taxing,” Hannibal’s hand comes up then, covers her eyes. “Perhaps it would be best if you took a shower and then laid down to rest. I will bring you something you can sleep in.”

The fog from earlier, when she first woke up, returns. It settles over her mind like a heavy blanket, comforting as it is restricting. Like a child being tucked in too tightly for bed. Will recognizes what is happening, what the monster behind her is doing, but she does not have the strength to fight it. Does not have the energy for confrontation. She settles into the fog, instead, and as Hannibal leaves the bathroom to find her a new set of clothes, Will disrobes, and steps into the steaming shower.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

 

Will passes out, or loses time. She’s not sure which. One moment she is watching more blood and suds mix down the drain, the next she is waking up on a sea of red sheets. The room is dark, illuminated only by what moonlight seeps into the room between the wide panels of shutter blinds. Will has been tucked into bed, or perhaps she put herself there. The mattress is impossibly large, and the size of it and the room she finds herself in makes her feel so insignificant, so tiny. 

Will shrinks further into herself at first. Legs pulled in and arms tightly wound about her torso. Will’s hands touch bare skin and it startles her. She throws back the sheets and looks herself over. Will is wearing some ornate, silk nightgown. Thin spaghetti straps leave her shoulders bear, but the dark, loose material was at least long and covered her down to her knees.

The lost time now brings cold dread to her stomach. Had she dressed herself, or had Lecter?

Will didn’t want to think about it. She couldn’t. She needed to focus on escaping.

Escaping, that’s right. 

_ Focus, Graham. _

Will recalls the garage door, and the car keys so carelessly on display. If she could get to the car, she would drive the damn thing straight through the iron gate and never look back.

Will sits in the bed and takes a moment to listen. She holds her breath and does not move an inch. The quiet is so absolute, she fears it may be manufactured. Man made. A trap. Will slowly slides herself from the bed all the same. What other choice did she have, but to at least attempt to run?

Carpeted flooring keeps Will’s steps silent; well oiled hinges allow her to check the hallway without disrupting the deafening silence. The entire house is dark, pitch, and she can barely see. The moon shines out of her room, however, and illuminates enough of the hall for the brunette to spot the top of the stairs.

She is halfway down the grand, curving wood steps when she hears a  _ creak _ of settling floor boards from somewhere behind her. Will freezes for all but a few seconds, calculates the likelihood of the sound coming from Lecter sneaking about his own home or the house settling in the night before she quickly continues on. At the base of the stairs she finds an open foyer and the front door. She is tempted, of course, to just bolt as is. But she is barefoot, barely clothed, and she knows now what horrors exists in the woods around them. 

Will would not stand a chance without the car. She turns her back to the door and turns into what looks like the den this whole mess started in. The fireplace is dim, though a few cinders still glow a muted orange. She ventures further into the bowels of the the manor, moving slowly as to not bump into any furniture. When she makes it to the dining room her heart begins to beat rapidly in her chest. Just thirty more feet; thirty feet and she would walk herself right into the car--into freedom. Into rapture.

Light floods the room.

Will freezes in place. She does not breathe. Behind her, she knows, Hannibal Lecter stands at the entryway. He has caught her.

Or found her, at the very least.

“I did not think you would wake so soon,” he says simply, his accent thicker as though he had just been sleeping. “My apologies. You must be hungry.”

The mention of food has a mixed effect on Will. Her mind balks like it is supposed to at the thought of cannibalism, but her stomach suddenly cramps from hunger and her mouth waters. Her body betraying her thoughts.

It is that realization more than anything else that has Will running for the garage door. It is not bravery that fuels her, and she barely entertains the idea of being able to outrun the  _ beast  _ wearing human skin.

Will recalls a paper she wrote for her college psychology class. The subject had been capture bonding. The mere idea of her ending up like one of the many case studies she had written about lights a fire in her veins. A need to do something, to show she is not compliant, even if she has given up the idea of escape.

For now, at least.

Will gets so far as grazing the brass door knob with her finger tips before a strong grip pulls her bodily from the door. She does not fight Lecter’s hold. There would be no point.

“You know leaving is not an option, and yet you run all the same,” Hannibal says as he deposited her at the seat she had occupied during dinner. “They say the definition of ‘insanity’ is trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.”

“I didn’t expect a different outcome,” Will bites, glaring up at her captor.

Hannibal ignores her and instead heads into the kitchen. There’s a moment where Will thinks about making another run for the garage, but something tells her she would regret the consequences. Underneath the well put together person-suit there is a monster that thrives on violence. 

No, Will would need to wait for a better opportunity. A moment of distraction.

Will closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing; panic bubbling just below the surface. There is the clinking of glassware and metal pans coming from the kitchen, the soft padding of bare feet from her captor from one end of what must have been an expansive, tiled room to another. 

The monster pacing in the heart of its lair _.  _

The  _ wendigo  _ browsing its larder _. _

“Shit,” Will hissed under her breath, her heart hammering away in her chest again; her mental forts not building fast enough to keep out dark associations. How could she expect them to when her imagination’s worst concoctions were being out matched by reality?

Will opened her eyes, gaze drawn to the spot on the floor where she had broken past her  _ ‘human chrysalis’,  _ as the doctor had said. A ‘Becoming’ born of sweat and blood and pain. But a  _ Becoming  _ of what--a banshee? 

In the scheme of things, what did that even mean?

For her undergrad classes Will had been forced to take  _ ‘Folklore and Mythologies’  _ with one of the colleges’ most underwhelming professors. The man had been all tweed and thick glasses, his passion for anthropology only matched by his disinterest in his students or presentations. It was an easy A and one of the most boring 8 weeks of Will’s college career. Thinking back now she can distinctly remember the word  _ banshee  _ being thrown around on several occasions. The memory is foggy though, the syllables of the word falling like a languid drop of molasses into Will’s understanding. Irish origins, a spectral being; and as Lecter had commented before, they were often used as a symbol of impending doom.

What did that mean for Will, trapped as she was in a living nightmare, the rules of reality apparently no longer dictating the world around her?

The sound of Lecter’s steady approach brought Will out of her dismal daze.

“Loin,” the monster said, plating a dish only in front of Will. “With a cumberland sauce.”

He set her place with silverware and a glass of water before taking his own seat, again at the head of the table.

“I do not often serve food that is not freshly cooked, but in your condition I thought it best to make a few meals while you were asleep to be better prepared.”

“My condition?” Will asked with a scoff. “You mean my  _ Becoming.” _

“Yes,” Lecter answered, his voice unreadable and his face an impenetrable mask. It unnerved Will; it was rare she met someone she could not read.

“I’m not hungry,” Will heard herself say, but even to her own ears it did not sound convincing. It felt as though she hadn’t eaten all day, though as far as she could tell it had only been at most a few hours since she last ate.

The monster tilted his head, the movement a barely-there tick to the left.

“I abhor lying, Will. It is very rude.”

Will felt a chill run down her spine at the doctor's cold tone, and she stared down at her  _ meal  _ to escape the red-speckled gaze of the beast sharing its table with her. She set her jaw stubbornly though, her fists white-knuckled in her lap. Unwilling to yield even to her own building fear.

“Given the circumstances I am hard pressed to hold your current behavior against you,” Hannibal leaned back in his seat, posture losing some of its tension and voice thawing. “However, there is a limit to my patience, Will. I won’t let you starve yourself for the sake of your ire. This is a delicate time for your health.”

_ “Why?”  _ Will snapped, her sudden temper making her so bold as to hold the unsettling stare of the monster before her. “I don’t understand what’s  _ happening-- _ what’s  _ happened  _ to me! Banshees, wraiths-- _ Impressions?  _ Do you hear yourself talking? This is all so-- _ ridiculous.  _ This is  _ crazy.” _

A sudden bark of hysterical laughter burst forth, a morbid thought forming. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to play with your  _ food?” _

The laughing continued only for a few seconds at her own disgusting jab at the very real cannibalism both she and Lecter had partaken. It quickly dissolved into crying. Will’s hands cupped her face, muffling her sobs and hiding the heat that had flooded to her cheeks in shame at her sudden outburst.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“There is nothing  _ wrong  _ with you,” Lecter replied calmly. “You must eat because of your  _ Becoming _ , yes. Your body is changing rapidly. Your physical form, as you have witnessed earlier--your shape and also your hormones. At this time you will find your emotions both intense and short lived. Anger, anxiety, hysteria--these will calm with time. And with food. It is what your body is craving, what it needs in good quantities and on a routine basis for the next few days.”

The tears stopped as abruptly as they had started. She sniffled, hands leaving her face. She stared down at the meal in front of her again, emotions a whirlwind inside the bone arena of her skull.

Hannibal reached across the table, a light touch at her forearm. 

“This will pass,” he said in a soft tone. Will felt tendrils of  _ something  _ reaching across her mind, the fog she had now become so familiar with. As she had in the bathroom just hours prior, she let it settle over her rampant thoughts willingly, desperate for a reprieve.

With the cloth napkin provided, Will wiped her face clean. Then, with a calmness she knew she did not truly possess, she began to cut into the  _ loin  _ and eat.

“I suppose an easier correlation than  _ impression  _ may be  _ doppleganger,  _ for you,” Hannibal hummed to himself. “This is essentially what you are at this phase in your life.”

Will let the wendigo’s words roll over her. She absorbed some of it, but not all. More listening than understanding. Content to just let the vibrations of the monsters voice cloud her ears like cotton.

“Do not get confused, however. You are no true doppelganger. They are of their own kind, have their own life cycle. Not nearly as unique as a banshee. Not nearly as powerful,” a thoughtful pause. “I wonder, Will, what it felt like for you: to unleash your birthright against one who meant to end your life. Perhaps one day we will sit down at a proper meal and you shall tell me.” 

When the plate was clear and the cup of water half empty, the fog once again lifted from Will’s mind.

Will knew she should not be so comforted by the lack of autonomy brought on about by the shroud of apathy Lecter was most certainly responsible for, and yet had it not been so much easier to give in and let it puppet her through what her body yearned for, while her mind stalled?

“I--I need to know,” Will said in a flat voice, marveling at the absolutely grotesque lack of revulsion for the meat she had just consumed. “I need to know what I am, what these changes are. Why the cannibalism. Who the hell you  _ are. _ ”

“To understand, my dear Will, you need only embrace the reality that is right in front of you.”

“And what reality is that?”

“That there are indeed creatures that go bump in the night. That the supernatural is not the dark fiction the human species makes it out to be.”

A moment of silence. A moment to mull over the undeniable proof Will had witnessed with her own eyes.

“You are a wendigo,” she said. Strangely that was not so hard to  _ ‘embrace’,  _ the next part, however, she enunciated carefully, the words leaving her lips with difficulty.

“I am a… banshee.”

Her face crumpled for a moment, but Will fought back the fit of tears that threatened to spring forth. Wrought control over the budding hysteria. Her  _ rapidly evolving emotions  _ would not get the best of her. She wanted--no,  _ needed _ answers.

“You said something about  _ stages  _ of evolution. The Becoming. What is it?”

“Before tonight you were trapped in adolescence--your body trying to mature into adulthood but unable to scavenge the resources it needed to do so.”

“And it needed me to eat human meat to  _ mature?” _

“A proper meal, what you were meant to eat to survive.”

Will laughed a harsh, barbed bark. “So I was  _ meant  _ to be a cannibal?”

“You misunderstand. Cannibalism is a process that some species go through to evolve. Mine, for example, are well renowned for cannibalism being the gateway into the world of the supernatural. While I described the circumstances in which the banshee evolves to be tedious, at no point is cannibalism a part of it.”

“What do you mean it has no part in it? You have admitted the secret ingredient in all your cooking is long pig. It’s what you fed me, for God’s sake. You said it is what triggered everything!”

“The meal is, yes, and it  _ is _ human meat. But in no way can this be described as cannibalism. You have not been human is quite a few years, my dear Will.”

Will leaned her elbows on the table, fisting her hair, eyes screwed shut in frustration and ever present fear. “I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense.”

“The first in a series of tomes dedicated to the research of your kind dates to the 1330’s, to a transcription from a pack of werewolves hosting an adult banshee and reaping the benefits of one transcending adolescence.”

_ “Werewolves.”  _ Will huffed in disbelief, a few stray tears running down her cheeks and onto the dinner plate below.

“In old Gaelic,” Lecter continued, undeterred. “They describe a young human child growing terribly ill in the winter. They write of rumors of a spectre visiting the girl at what was thought to be her deathbed, before she miraculously regained her health. The child no longer smelled human, however, to the wolves keen nose. They took the girl out of curiosity.”

“Growing up with a pack of wolves had whittled down the ingrained human inhibitions. Eventually, during a particularly grueling winter, this led to what the girl would have believed to be cannibalism. She endured the same changes that you did earlier tonight. However, the moment the spectre laid eyes on the dying little girl, her humanity was forfeit. Both the human child and the wraith that had harold her impending death ceased to exist on that  _ miraculous  _ night. They became one in the same; a  _ ‘doppelganger’ _ to replace the original.”

“An Impression,” Will summarised, remembering what she had thought had been the ramblings of a mad man not hours before. She wished she could still convince herself that’s all this was.

“I want to go home,” Will said, repeating the sad plea she had made so pathetically in the bathroom. “ _ Please _ , I just want to go  _ home _ .”

“I cannot allow you to leave, Will,” the monster answered, but not unkindly. His voice was soft spoken, as though to sooth. Unfortunately, nothing the doctor had said this evening had done much in the way of  _ soothing  _ at all.

“You can,” Will looked up then, hysteria induced submission swinging sharply to anger. “You  _ can _ just let me go home. You could let me walk out of here. That’s your choice, to hold me against my will.  _ Let me leave!” _

_ Why wouldn’t he just let her go home? _

“For the next week there will be two things your body will be focusing on. Food is its primary concern. The changes your body is going through will take a lot of energy. I always keep my kitchen well stocked, so this will be of little concern for you as long as you stay here. If you leave, you could die of starvation in a matter of hours.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Regardless, for the next seven days you will not be leaving my home.”

_ I will. I will leave here, you sick son of a bitch.  _

She already knew how she was leaving, she would just need to wait for the right moment to make another move for the car keys. Her daddy had taught her well. Will  _ would  _ break free from Lecter.

“You said there were two things,” Will said, her anger simmering. “You said the change would force my body to focus on two things. What is the second?”

Hannibal paused for a moment, closing his eyes. His head tilted again, but this time from concentration. He scented the air and Will had the strangest impression of a predator smelling its prey.

The fear returned full force when the monster smiled to himself.

“The second, vital part of the change is something you will experience very soon,” he said, eyes opening and pinning Will in place. “Your body will feel an overwhelming need to fulfil one of its most base desires: to procreate.”

 

 

 

 

 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The glass plate shattered against the far dining room wall, as loud as a gunshot in the otherwise still house. Will saw red, her temper a hot mass of jagged emotion. The glass of water goes flying next, and Will has only a half formed thought of taking her silverware and ramming it through Hannibal Lecter’s eyes before strong arms are encompassing her; restricting her from behind.

“That was rude, Will,” Hannibal growls into her ear .

“Go  _ fuck  _ yourself,” Will uses the monsters hold to her advantage. She slams both feet onto the side of the dining room table, and with an impossible strength sends them both careening back into a wall; the table skidding to the other side, a corner puncturing paint and plaster.

Alongside the burning temper was a foreign and yet  _ familiar  _ build of heartburn. An electric heat. A boiling honey balm. Nothing made sense anymore, reality was surreal. The world around Will felt like a hallucination, but she knew better. Somehow she knew what she felt and saw was nothing but  _ truth.  _

There was truth in the poison the doctor whispered into her ears. There was truth in the changes her body endured, in the way she hungered for human flesh; even in the way her body felt the beginnings of desire.

But what Lecter was neglecting to remember was that there was truth in her  _ scream _ .

As Hannibal wrestled to get Will’s limbs under control, Will let her head tip back. Let her throat relax. Let the heat rise up her esophagus; let it burn in a rippling excitement. Her shoulders tensed, and when she felt a ball of fire perched just under her chin she opened her mouth wide and  _ screamed. _

It was different this time, compared to her frantic escape in the woods. Will stayed cognizant, for one. She felt the intense vibrations that left her body, felt it burst forth and pierce the air. It was like the world around shattered. Hannibal’s grip dropped immediately, and the wendigo himself soon hit the floor. He grabs his ears, eyes screwed shut. He lands on his side, legs collapsing. Disoriented and stunned. 

Gone the grace of the predator of before.

Will drops soon after.

Her scream was short lived, just a few seconds. It is enough. Her body feels like led; Hannibal is incapacitated. A tense, involuntary stalemate as both  _ monsters  _ tried to gain their barings.

On her hands and knees Will pants as though she has run a marathon. Her throat hurts. Her head is spinning. The light in the room is much too bright. Amongst it all she is hungry--starving. A cramp has the girl curling in on herself.

The door and car keys were just feet away.

Will stands and wobbles her way to the kitchen.

_ Food, food, food. _

A mantra is playing a frantic crescendo in her head. The further into the kitchen she got, the louder the words seemed to get. She felt, inexplicably, like she was a spectator inside her own body.  _ The garage,  _ she urged herself, but instead watched as her hand whipped out to grasp the refrigerators door in a white-knuckled grip--

\--and  _ ripped the door off its hinges.  _

There is a crash of metal hitting the tile floor: glass breaking, tile cracking, condiments rolling across the floor. Milk and orange juice seeped like a crime scene, made the air smell citrusy-sweet. Will smelled something better. Eyes like a hawk, she saw what must have been thawing ground  _ long-pig  _ in a baggie on the bottom shelf. She reached for it, ripped the bag open. The scent was so strong now; suffocating. The first fist full across her tongue tastes like nervana. 

The fever doesn’t subside until the ground meat is gone and Will felt full once again.

_ What the fuck. I need to  _ go.

Legs now sturdy, Will dragged herself off the floor and carefully navigated the broken glass strewn across the floor. She didn’t think about how she could have possibly managed pulling the door from its hinges, or about the single-mindedness that had led to gorging on human flesh. No, she only focused on the garage and the keys and the door. Her escape. How she could have fucked up what may be her only chance she refused to consider.

Hannibal appears then, suit disheveled and hair in disarray. His face was placid, but Will could see a fury in his eyes.

_ Of course,  _ she thinks.  _ I’ve been terribly  _ rude.

Hadn’t that been her single fear while hypnotized by Lecter’s mind tricks, being rude?

“You have made a mess, Will,” the doctor says, voice cool as the blade of a knife. Will threw caution to the wind. How much worse could things truly get?

Will lunged at Hannibal, the strength she had shown not minutes prior a comforting memory. If Will was this  _ beast  _ Lecter so described, then she saw no reason not to act like it.

Hannibal counters Will’s fist with ease. She could feel the strength coiled within her muscles, but she felt the same force behind Hannibal’s every move. Who knew how many years the man had, had to master what Will was only now realizing she possessed. Their  _ ‘fight’ _ doesn’t last long. The doctor grabs Will around the throat and slams her into the kitchen floor. 

It hurts, my god does it hurt--Will feels more tiles crack beneath her head and blood flow free from her scalp.

“Enough,” She hears the monster hiss in a voice too deep to be human. The lights above her blur together, dance and twirl and flicker. Forget a concussion, her brain was scrambled.

Will doesn’t know how long she lays there, limp and still and pathetic. She feels her blood reach her shoulders, staining the night dress she wore. Was she dying? No, Hannibal had seemed too interested in her to just let he die so quickly--it would be a waste. That wasn’t as comforting as Will would hope. Perhaps there were fates worse than death. Perhaps that’s the fate she was living now.

Will sees the palm of Hannibal’s hand before it covers her eyes and sends her careening into the dark. The next thing she knows, she’s in a bathtub scented with cinnamon. The water is stained pink.When Will reaches a hand behind her head, she finds no wound--just wet hair and more tendrils of cinnamon.

The tub is huge, big enough for two grown men easy. She’s completely naked.

Will sits up, arms covering her now full breasts. It was strange to feel--what wasn’t her body, but what  _ was  _ her body. Alien within her own flesh.

The doctor enters the bathroom with a casualness of long known lovers. As though Will wasn’t completely indecent.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Will says, surprising herself. The thought had left her lips no sooner than it had crossed her mind. She thought she knew the answer--at least part of it. The idea brought goose pimples to her skin. She needed to know the truth though, the whole truth. From the mouth of the Beast himself.

Hannibal does not regard Will directly. He is washing his hands at the sink. He eyes her briefly from the mirror, then returns his gaze to himself.

“To have a Banshee is to rule the Underworld.”

He says it simply, as though it could ever be simple. Rule the Underworld? Hannibal’s answer only begged more questions.

“The food in the fridge will spoil. Unfortunately, I had pulled most of my supplies from the freezer in preparation of your Becoming. I will have to go hunting for more.”

_ Hunting.  _ Is that how the doctor saw what he did? Murder, hunting. Will supposed, to one that ate human flesh, that murder wasn’t much different than skewering a doe across one’s arrow.

_ I eat human flesh. _

The thought drifts to the forefront and stays there. Will feels funny. Her skin feels hot beneath her hands, her nipples harden against her forearms. Her eyes drift to her naked lap beneath the pink tinged water. Pink from blood. Her blood. Hannibal had done that, with a strength Will had never experienced before. Hannibal was going hunting. He was going to use that strength to dominate what was supposed to be the world's top predator, tear them apart  _ to feed Will. _

Will feels slick on the inside; is suddenly aware of her clitoris and the  _ spasm  _ of pleasure she felt by clenching her thighs together.

She wanted; she  _ needed.  _

Hannibal is fixing his hair in the mirror now, fingers brushing aside loose strands of silk hair. Will stands from the tub, water sloshing over the side as she moved, dripping down her body in rivets as she stepped out. She paid the towel hanging next to her no mind; she had only one goal and that was to  _ fuck  _ Hannibal Lecter.

The doctor finally regards her. His face remains placid but his eyes once again give way to another emotion: surprise. Had he not expected this? Had he not been the one to describe Will’s Becoming, step by step?

Will slowly approaches Hannibal, hands reaching out to grab hold of his suit jacket.

“You’ll ruin it,” Hannibal says, but there’s no fire to his words. He lets her grab hold, lets her press herself close, soaking his shirt.

“Please,” is all Will can think to say. She’s a virgin, through and through. Never even made it to first base. She wants, she needs, she just doesn’t know  _ what. _

Will looks up from her place held snugly at the doctor’s chest, face pleading.

“How can I refuse you,” Hannibal says, a cruel smile curling his lips. “When you beg me so prettily?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I hate cliffhangers too. But I needed to post something, so here we are.


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